


Breaking Borders

by kissing2cousins



Series: Borders [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Decisions, Emotions, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Massage, Moment in time, Smut, Tea, bad day, surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8713672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissing2cousins/pseuds/kissing2cousins
Summary: When you’re having a bad day the unexpected arrival of your crazy genius of a flatmate is bound to make it worse.





	

John groaned as he leaned back into his chair, the worn seat an old and comforting friend as it cradled him in its familiar embrace. Finally, he was done for the evening, now he could just relax and pretend the day had never happened. After everything he’d dealt with today he was refusing to move anywhere other than eventually to his bedroom. Trying to convince his sore body to relax and aching head to stop throbbing John snagged the cup of tea he had just made to take a nice, long drink. 

Now, if only he had thought to bring his laptop over when he had taken the painkillers he could do a bit of writing before he became too drowsy. However, as he hadn’t thought about it until this moment, the bloody thing was still across the room. Looking longingly over at the device for a few moments, John shook his head before wincing at the pain the motion caused. Nope, he was not getting it and not shaking his head again either. 

Instead, he took stock of what he had around him. He was disappointed when he realized there was nothing to occupy himself in arms reach. Well, since he couldn’t quite muster the energy for standing yet, he would just stay here until his body stopped aching and head stopped throbbing so much. He took another long swallow of the rich tea, ignoring the pain the heat of it caused; good tea, after all, was worth a bit of pain. 

Suddenly the door to the apartment was flung open, banging loudly against the wall with the force. Startled, John jumped, spilling the half-full cup of near boiling tea onto his brown jumper and trousers. Cursing he leapt to his feet, pealing the jumper away from his skin while trying, one-handed, to remover the trousers. He sank to the ground, pain thrumming through him as his body and head protested the sudden movement. 

“Why me,” John gritted through clenched teeth as the scalding water sank more completely into the material. After a few more seconds struggling with the trousers, he temporarily gave up on removing them, settling instead for plucking the fabric away from his now tender skin. Sitting fully on the ground, fly open and trousers around his thighs was not how he wished to greet his brilliant and insane flatmate, but there was no help for it.

“Sherlock,” He ground the name out as he debated on the most appropriate method of killing the man. Something with knives, or better yet, a flame-thrower might be appropriate. “Wet a flannel with cold water and bring it to me,” John growled out the order, refusing to look over at the other man, staring down at the cooling wet patches on his legs instead.

While intellectually John knew that the burns were very minor, he wouldn’t even notice them in about twenty minutes or so, they still hurt now and would feel better with the application of the cloth. That did mean he needed to get the trousers off completely though and he was sorely tempted to just say bugger it and crawl to bed, anything to end this sorry excuse of a day. Unfortunately, the doctor in him was adamant that he cool the wound before crawling away to pretend the day had never happened. 

After a long moment of silence, John finally heard the shifting of material. He guessed that Sherlock was removing his coat, hopefully in preparation of following the order. “John, you had explicitly stated that any masturbation was to be done in the privacy of the bedroom.” The other man was still at the door, having made no move towards the kitchen.

John growled low in his throat before turning to glare over at the infuriating man. “This,” he waved a hand at his sprawled-out form, “Is not masturbation.” Fingers twitching ever so slightly for the gun he kept hidden away, he balled his hands into a fist. “This is a man in pain who has just dropped boiling tea on his trousers!” He snapped out the words. “So, stop being a git and get me that bloody flannel.”

Pointedly turning away, John propped himself up and began shimmying out of the wet material. He heard Sherlock moving behind him but refused to look to see if the man was complying with his order. Once the offending trousers were off John closed his eyes, willing his temper to stay in check. Leaning his head against the seat cushion, he refused to put any further effort into moving just now. What a bloody day.

Hearing a noise near him, John opened his eyes. Jumping as Sherlock’s upside-down face peered down at his burning thighs, his body leaning over the length of the chair, he regretted the action as pain shot through his neck and skull. He shifted and looked away only to jump again as the wet flannel was unceremoniously plopped into his lap.

“Thanks,” John muttered as he picked up the sopping cloth, folding it properly, before smoothing it over the scald across his thighs. Sighing in relief at the soothing coolness he only then realized something rather important. “Sherlock, aren’t you supposed to be in Sweden, solving that high-profile murder?”

The dark-haired man strode into John’s line of vision, gracefully manoeuvring through the clutter of paper and books on his side of the room to sprawl haphazardly in his chair. “Yes, that,” He waved his hand dismissively through the air. “Solved it before my flight was ready to leave, no point in going now.” Sherlock’s pale eyes focused on John’s for the first time since arriving and narrowed slightly. “You’re injured, why?”

John snorted. Of course, he had solved the case before even leaving the country. The man was the most brilliant person he had ever met. Sherlock could sometimes be awe-inspiring, normally bloody amazing, but most often frustrating, like now. Looking down at his legs and wet jumper he shrugged, “It might be due to an inconsiderate ass banging the door open.” He was surprised that Sherlock noticed. No, not noticed, more like cared enough to even comment on it. 

Sherlock dismissed that statement with a shake of his head, “Not that,” The silent ‘idiot’ was loud in the air. “It’s minor in any case, you likely won’t even notice it in an hour or two. Your back John, what is wrong with your back.”

John shrugged again, refusing to wince at the jolt of pain that shot up his neck. Making a note to not do that again he glowered instead at his flatmate. “I’m fine.” He knew better than to lie to the man, but bypass the subject? Absolutely. Picking up the flannel he turned it over and replaced the wet material on his thighs, sighing as the cold continued to seep in.

Silence settled into the room as John focused all of his attention on the wet material in his lap, idly pulling at a loose thread as small rivulets of water escaped and ran down his leg and onto the floor beneath him. Sherlock seemed to be pondering. He had that odd faraway look. From past experiences John knew that expression did not bode well for him at all. Standing abruptly, the taller man moved towards him, holding out a hand to help him to his feet. “Come John.”

After staring quizzically at the hand for a moment he shook his head, immediately remembering that he had decided not to do that again as more pain shot through his neck and into his skull. “I’m fine,” he repeated. Yea, he was just peachy.

Sherlock glowered down at him and shook his head; dark locks momentarily obscuring those odd pale eyes. “No, you are in pain and as such you are going to bed.” After holding his hand out for another moment Sherlock must have realized that he was not going to accept the hand up. With a drawn-out sigh he reached down and grasped John’s forearms and bodily hauled him to his feet. “Now.”

Ignoring the flannel as it fell to the ground with a wet splat he found himself startled by the other man’s strength. While he knew that Sherlock was stronger than he looked, he hadn’t expected the act of dragging him up to be as easy a feat as the man made it appear. Still, this was not helping his throbbing his head or aching muscles and John shook off the warm hands. “Sherlock-”

He was cut off as the detective grasped his shoulders, physically turning him and began marching him to his bedroom. Biting his lip, John fought back the curses he wanted to throw at his flatmate. If Sherlock wanted to play bloody nursemaid then fine. After all, who was he to discourage the rare act of the mad genius attempting to care for someone else? Even if this killed him, John would let the other man do as he wished.

Soon enough they crossed the threshold into his sparsely furnished bedroom. The younger man released his shoulders and stepped past, walking through the room like it was his own. “Remove your shirt and lay down.” The order was spoken as the genius circled around the perfectly made bed to the far side. Grasping the dark coverlet Sherlock folded it down to allow John to more easily climb in and collapse.

John attempted to comply with the order for a moment, hands grasping the hem and he tried pulling it up. As pain shot through his shoulders and neck he let his jumper drop back down. He was too tired and sore to bother. After a quick internal debate, he decided that the minor discomfort of sleeping in a jumper was worth it if he could just pass out right now. “I think I’ll just sleep with it on.”

Shuffling over he prepared to crawl into bed when a hand on his arm stopped him. Look up at Sherlock, he was startled to notice how bright the detective’s unusual eyes were and felt a jolt of awareness shiver through him. Only because of the awkward position they were in, John told himself fiercely. His trousers were after all downstairs in a heap and the man was helping him to bed.

Sherlock stepped forward, closing the space between them as those long, dexterous fingers released his arm and shifted to the hem of his sweater. The silence in the room made the situation seem more intimate than it actually was. “As you seem unable to accomplish this task on your own, I will assist.” As he finished speaking he slowly began pulling the material up.

Was it his imagination or had Sherlock’s voice lowered? Not that it mattered, because he was not going to have his friend undress him like an invalid. Shifting, John tried to move away, only to freeze at the accidental brush of the other man’s knuckles against his sides. He sucked in a sharp breath as he felt the heat of those hands just barely grazing along his skin.

His stomach did a flip as Sherlock slowly lifted the jumper higher, inch-by-inch, exposing more of his chest. Grasping the edges of the material himself, John took over, needing to get the genius to leave before he noticed anything. He pulled the jumper over his head, cloth obscuring his vision as he stepped back. John drew in a startled breath and stopped as he felt long fingers gently skimming up his ribs.

With his vision deprived he wasn’t sure what Sherlock was up to. While he couldn’t hear the other man’s soft breathing, the whisper of cloth as Sherlock shifted was loud in his ears. The soft brush of fingertips against his overly hot skin raised goosebumps as the jumper was pulled up and over his shoulders. The man was being surprisingly gentle as those hands moved along his arms. Shit, John thought as he felt himself responding to the sensation.

Getting a hard-on because his flatmate was touching him, undressing him, was not a situation John had ever thought he would find himself in. He rationalized to himself that it had to be because he hadn’t had a girlfriend in a while. It had after all been a couple of months; he was pent up and as he couldn’t see the other man his body had decided that this was foreplay.

Suddenly his head cleared the confining space of the jumper and he found himself staring once more into those bright eyes. The colour seemed to have shifted somehow, a green hue now encompassing the pale blue. Slowly lowering his arms, John allowed the younger man to finish peeling the material off his arms, trying to ignore the soft zings of pleasure that travelled through his body at every accidental brush of fingers. 

Licking his suddenly dry lips, John opened his mouth to tell the man to leave only to draw in a sharp breath as nail grazed along the inside of his forearms. Sherlock’s eyes darted down as he did, staying locked on his lips for a long moment. Scrunching the jumper in his hands he tossed the material into a basket. “Get in bed John.” The genius took a slow step back, not looking away.

He felt oddly exposed standing there in only his shorts with Sherlock only a couple feet away, fully dressed in his usual designer clothes. Quickly he turned, praying that the other man had not noticed his half erection and carefully began crawling into bed. As he was doing this he heard the other man walk out of the room. “Thank god,” he breathed to himself as he sank down face first onto the cool sheets.

Deciding to ignore what had just happened John began the process of trying to find a comfortable position. After a few minutes of shifts and grunts, he finally settled with his face nearly off the pillow, one arm tucked under his head and the other arm dangling off the bed from the elbow down. Closing his eyes, he began to breath deep, trying to encourage sleep, not that he would have much difficulty, he was exhausted.

John began drifting, his muscles unclenching as he relaxed into the bed. The edges of sleep were creeping in, pulling him under, one breath at a time. Something warm and wet dripped onto his back. John’s eyes flashed open and he spotted Sherlock, standing at the side of the bed, a bottle small clutched in hand. “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” John exclaimed as he made to sit up.

Sherlock was quick as he placed a firm hand against John’s shoulder blades, effectively pinning him to the mattress. “You’re in pain, a massage will help in this matter.” As the younger man spoke in a matter of fact tone more of the warm liquid drizzled onto his skin. He could feel it trickling down, following the natural curve of his spine and beginning to pool at the small of his back.

“Look, I don’t need a massage, I just need to get some sleep. I’ll be fine in the morning.” He tried to reason with his insane flatmate, certain that the effort would be futile but he made the attempt nonetheless. Trying to roll away he found himself even more firmly pinned than before as both hands began pressing down, not allowing his shoulders to lift off the bed. 

Sherlock didn’t respond right away, instead crawling onto his lower back, long legs framing him, guaranteeing that John wouldn’t be able to just roll off the bed. “You are being ridiculous; a massage will help and you will feel better for it. I will do that, then you will sleep.” The tone brooked no arguments.

Realizing he was in no shape to fight off the blasted man, John growled low in his throat. “Fine, but this is the only time.” Clenching his fists, he made a point of glaring over at the wall. A massage would help he rationalized, then Sherlock would get over his odd mother hen attitude and leave John be. 

Inhaling deeply, he caught the scent of the oil beginning to permeate the room. Mint, sandalwood and something else he couldn’t identify. Thankfully it wasn’t anything flowery like lavender, he hated lavender. The combination of scents was calming and he wanted to relax, but that was hard to do with his flatmate straddling his back.

He felt Sherlock lean forward then, putting pressure on his shoulders as he slid further down to sit firmly on his rear. John bit the inside of his cheek to stop the protest on the new position. If he complained about every little thing that his mad friend did he would never get anything done.

Strong hands pressed down on the small of his back, flattening out in the pool of oil. He moved slowly up John’s back, along his spine, and across his shoulders, rubbing the oil in. Once his back was lathered Sherlock began again at the small of his back. Using more pressure this time, fingers digging in and pulling at the first of the knots. He pressed in, massaging in small circles, slowly working his way back up.

John groaned loudly as one deep knot was found and worked on just below his right shoulder blade. Both hands focused on that one spot, pressing in and demolishing it one stroke at a time. He couldn’t help the shiver that ran through his body as long, elegant fingers splayed and ran along his ribs, nor could he help the way his body was responding to the stimuli. A physical response to a physical action, he mentally told himself, nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed over.

As the detective slowly worked his way higher John could feel the soft material of Sherlock’s slacks shift and bunch against his skin, could feel the muscles tighten as the man leaned forward to put more pressure on his back. The feel of the other man above him and himself face down was somehow thrilling and he fought off a groan for an entirely different reason.

This is Sherlock Holmes, he reminded himself. Your bloody git of a flatmate, the genius who pisses people off within a minute of meeting them, often in less time than that. Unfortunately, his body didn’t care. All his body knew was that the person sitting on him had long legs that framed his hips nicely and magic hands.

That thought was reinforced as the man’s legs tightened around him and Sherlock shifted forward to begin working on the muscles in his shoulders. “My God,” John gasped out as a knot released and he relaxed even further into the ministrations of the other man. He lost all sense of time as the genius worked him over, fingers sliding up his neck and stroking and kneading the tense muscles.

His headache had all but disappeared as Sherlock massaged his neck and jaw, working along the base of his skull before sliding back down his back. Half boneless in bliss he barely noticed Sherlock shifting on him again and again, sliding a little further down each time he pressed in with the heel of his palms.

Eventually, though, those magical hands slowed and came to a stop. This filled John with a sense of disappointment. For a moment he just laid there, revelling in the glow of complete relaxation. He hadn’t felt this good in a long time, maybe even in years. The combination of painkillers and the massage had done amazing work. With a sigh, he prepared to open his eyes and thank his friend.

Opening his mouth John instead gasped as the hands began working the muscles at the top of his arse, fingers dipping into the waistband of his pants. His hips jerked as fingers kneaded firmly. Licking his dry lips, he tried to tell Sherlock to stop, only to find himself panting out something unintelligible instead. The detective manipulated his flesh, finding new spots to work out with unerring precision.

The tips of his fingers caressed, light flutters of sensation that caused John to shudder over and over again. His nerves were on fire. Every brush of fingers, press of thumbs and push of palms elicited a physical response from him. John was hard and aching, unconsciously grinding into the bed to the rhythm of the other man’s strokes.

He was flushed as he buried his face into the pillow, breathing in shallow pants, his arms shifted to clutch at the sheets as Sherlock continued to massage his arse. Once more those deliciously talented hands trailed up. Fingers quested out, gentle caresses along his ribs before returning to his spine.

He was adrift in the sea of sensations his friend was causing. He shouldn’t be surprised that Sherlock knew how to give an amazing massage he mused in a haze. The man knew exactly where each knot seemed to be, the perfect amount of pressure required to destroy it and the best way to soothe the area afterward. The man seemed to be brilliant at anything he had a genuine interest in. 

As that thought flitted through his mind another chased it. Would he be this good at giving head? Even the idea of that perfectly shaped mouth on him was enough to have him panting. Grinding deep into the mattress, he lost the rhythm the detective had created between them as his mind filled with dangerous images of Sherlock on his knees, lips glistening. 

As he drifted back from the euphoria of sensation John noticed the sudden discord between his body and Sherlock’s own lightly thrusting form. Before he could clear his head enough to think or do anything the man’s nails raked down his sides leaving fiery trails in their wake. John arched as he cried out, partly from the shock of the light pain, but mostly from the sharp pleasure induced.

Falling against the bed again he felt Sherlock begin rocking against him once more, light rhythmic presses against his arse. Panting, John tried to think through the cloud of sensations he found himself in. Wetting his dry lips, he opened his mouth. “Sherlock-” He breathed the name, only to find the rest of his words lost as a tongue slid languidly up the length of his spine. The warm, wet pressure broke off into nips as he moved, ending in an open, sucking kiss at the base of his neck.

John arched again, head unconsciously tilting as he felt the other man’s mouth moving against the side of his neck. He could feel Sherlock’s hair, the soft tendrils brushing against his cheek and forehead as he leaned in close. Running a tongue along the shell of his ear the detective breathed against the wetness, “John.” As the name was spoken those strong hands pulled his hips up into firm contact to the arousal only hinted at before.

His name on the younger man’s lips wound John even tighter, pinpricks of pleasure dancing along his skin. He twisted on the bed, breaking the other man’s grip on him and continued to move until he was sitting, Sherlock straddling him. Only inches separated them as they stared at one another. Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed, heavy-lidded eyes blazing as their gazes locked. He was panting lightly, hips shifting slowly back and forth as he sat firmly on John, rocking their erections together.

John had never seen that expression on his friend’s face before. Those amazing lips quirked slightly, glistened with the same oil as on his back. He leaned forward, one hand threading into the dark curly locks before closing the small distance between them. Their lips crashed together, hard and demanding, opening to fight with tongues. He groaned at the feel, taste, and scent of the younger man, cock pulsing as he thrust up.

More, he thought again, his fingers tightened in the detective’s hair almost to the point of causing pain, his other hand snaked around Sherlock’s waist, sliding up under the shirt to the skin hidden beneath. Sherlock arched into the touch, biting down on John’s lip as he rocked harder, silently demanding more. 

Growling low in his throat John released his grip and shifted again, leaning forward and sprawling Sherlock onto his back. Crawling up the man’s lithe form he placed kisses along his torso, hesitating slightly as his lips found a cloth cover nipple. He bit down gently before continuing up and aligning their bodies. Capturing his lips in another demanding kiss John began rocking once more while unbuttoning the shirt with quick, sure movements. 

He groaned into the kiss as Sherlock picked up the rhythm, one talented hand gripping his hip while the other scored another fiery trail down his back. Wrenching his mouth away he gasped at the new flood of pleasure, hips grinding down harder. Ripping the last two buttons he pulled open the shirt and bowed his head, nipping and biting at the base of Sherlock’s throat before soothing with his tongue.

As his mouth worked, John began running a hand along the younger man’s torso. His fingers found a nipple and he squeezed, rolling the bud gently between his fingers. Sherlock arched and cried out, nails digging into his back once more. Rocking his hips, the genius wrapped one leg around John’s waist, erection pressing into his stomach as John’s was suddenly thrusting against his arse. Sherlock’s other hand dipped into his pants to cup his ass, stroking to their movements.

John trailed kisses over the pale man’s collarbone, nipping here and there as he began moving down. Both hands abandoned what they were previously doing to skim over ribs before making their way to Sherlock’s trousers. Working the button and fly with one hand he unwound the detective’s leg from his body and moved down.

Kissing a trail down he made a point at stopping and lathering attention on first one nipple then the other before continuing his southern trek. His teeth grazed over ribs as he continued nips and sucking until he reached his navel. Tongue dipping in, he had to hold Sherlock’s hips for a moment until the other man sank back into the bed.

John hooked his fingers under the waistline of the genius’s pants and began pulling both articles clothing down. The erection popped free, standing proudly, pulsing slightly and John continued his slow trek down. He kissed along the man’s hip and thigh, not quite touching the straining erection as he moved further down. 

He’d nearly removed the offending clothes completely when Sherlock moved. Grasping John by the forearms he rolled them, claiming the top once more. A few seconds later he had freed his legs and bent down, covering a nipple with his mouth. His blazing eyes locked onto John’s own as his mouth worked magic.

With a sharp inhalation, he thrust, only to find the younger man’s body not in line with his own. John made to sit up, only to be firmly pushed back. Sharp nails slid down his ribs, forcing another sound from his lips. Those amazing hands traveled further down, hooking on his pants and tugging them down. Sherlock leaned in as he pulled at the material. After a quick kiss, he bit hard on John’s hip. As John thrust forward with a startled cry the pants were pulled down and off in seconds. 

“God!” He gasped as the younger man licked the side of his shaft. The sight of the genius crouched there, between his legs, hands braced on John’s hips and lips hovering just above the head of his cock was almost more than he could take. 

The detective’s hands dug into his hips and he looked up the line of the older man’s body. “Say my name, John.” Head bowing, he began nuzzling at John’s balls, slowly rolling one into his mouth, his talented tongue circling gentle caresses. One, then the other, he lapped at them, teeth grazing gently. All the while those hands moved, one shifting around to cup his arse, the other sliding along the inside of his thigh.

John’s head fell back as he groaned again. No one had ever sucked on his balls before, how had he not known it could feel this good? It was amazing. Those long, agile fingers pulled his leg wider, leaving him fully exposed. He panted through the starbursts of pleasure, gripping the sheets as his body twisted under the assault. “God,” He breathed.

Fisting the sheets in his hands he pulled at them to stop himself from forcing that exquisitely talented mouth onto his erection. Oh, how he wanted to though. He couldn’t stop his rhythmic pumping as the detective continued his ministrations. He felt on fire, his entire body tense as waves of pleasure crashed over him.

John gasped as a tongue flicked out to caress just below his balls. Just as sudden as that, all contact stopped. Opening his eyes John watched as Sherlock crawled up his body, not quite touching at any point until they were face to face. Unable to help himself he arched forward trying to bring their bodies together, but the genius shifted up and placed one hand on the centre of his chest, firmly holding him down.

Sherlock leaned forward, licking and kissing a line up his neck, still carefully maintaining that blasted distance everywhere else. Reaching his jaw, the detective kissed a trail along its curve, finding his lips. Gently their lips pressed together for a moment before once again his friend pulled away. “John,” His name from Sherlock’s mouth in that raw tone twisted his insides. “I wish for you to be entirely cognizant of exactly who you are in bed with. If you would like to continue, say my name.”

Bloody hell, John really didn’t want to be thinking right now. He just wanted the genius to continue what he had been doing. He wanted to feel the man’s mouth and hands on his skin, the slick glide of their bodies from sweat and oil as they moved together. If he closed his eyes and didn’t think he could imagine it was almost anyone causing unbelievable spikes of pleasure to rock through his body, not his best friend.

But what was the point of Sherlock stopping, John mused. He wanted John to be fully aware of who was making him feel this way; who was making him gasp, groan and want more. It was Sherlock, not some nameless, faceless person creating this turmoil of emotion and sensation. It was Sherlock and no one else who was making him ache.

While he lay there, bodies close enough to feel one another’s heat but not quite touch, the two of them held still, frozen in a type of limbo until he decided what to do next. Should he throw the detective from him or pull the man closer. The decision was entirely his, Sherlock made sure of that. Biting the inside of his cheek, he looked up into those intensely bright eyes, those lips reddened from their kisses. He could feel the man’s slightly ragged breath against his face.

John wanted him, that much was true, but did he want to jeopardize the friendship they had built over the last few years? He was questioning himself and his preferences in gender now too. He’d always felt an odd sort of attraction for the genius, something he’d always brushed off as admiration for Sherlock’s brilliance. He felt a type of awe towards the detective would run head first into mysteries and problems, seemingly reckless with everything he did.

Their late-night dashes through the alleys and seedier areas of London had always left John exhilarated, slightly breathless and focused entirely too much on his beautiful and mad friend. Again, he always brushed those off as the adrenaline high, but he could only lie to himself so much before the lies unravelled before his eyes.

Here he lay, naked with Sherlock Holmes, mad genius, having just been grinding against one another. He couldn’t pretend that there hadn’t been any attraction, that there wasn’t still an attraction. John hesitated, eyes mapping out the beautiful face inches from his own, those brilliant tri-coloured eyes blazing as they stared down at him and made his decision.

Lifting both hands he braced them against Sherlock’s pale shoulders. In a lightning-quick motion, he hooked a leg around the detectives. He pushed and twisted, throwing the younger man to the mattress. Having successfully switched their position John settled himself firmly on the man, straddling his thighs and leaned forward. Releasing his grip on those sinfully soft shoulders John trailed his fingertips along well-muscled biceps, dipping into crooks of the elbow before sliding down forearms to loosely grasp the detective's wrists.

“Sherlock.” As John whispered the name he watched those magnificent eyes blaze. Drawing the captured hand slowly up above those dark curly locks he leaned in close until their lips were a breath apart. “I know exactly who I am in bed with.”

Having said his bit, he leaned down and captured those fantastic lips. Transferring both trapped wrists to his left hand John shifted and began a slow rocking movement. Not once breaking their duelling mouths, his right hand began to caress the skin he could touch. Running his fingers along the curves of muscles and ribs his hand continued down.

Sherlock twisted under him, trying to drag his arms down as he groaned, but John tightened his grip, putting more pressure on the captured hands. Tilting his head, he began kissing at the long curve of genius’s neck, following the rhythm of their thrusts. He bit gently and soothed the lightly reddened skin with his tongue.

Sherlock growled low in this throat and he angled his head, exposing even more of his neck. “Harder John,” The order was panted out as heavy-lidded eyes bore into his own. Following the command, John bit down, hard. The detective arched as much as his trapped limbs would allow, a loud moan escaping those lips. 

John rocked slowly, forcing their erections into contact again and again, the sweat and oil coating their skin allowing for a smoother slide. Leaning forward he once more caught those delicious lips with his own. Sherlock’s mouth opened immediately and their tongues duelled for dominance. 

Suddenly Sherlock broke John’s grip on his hands and the genius gripped him at the hips. In a move that John was unable to fully grasp his friend had twisted them first one way then the other and somehow freed both legs from the confines of his own. In the next instant, those legs were wrapped around his waist.

John faltered as he began thrusting against the detective’s arse. Having never been with a man, he wasn’t entirely sure where the boundaries lay in what they were doing, but he knew first hand that most women did not like having their asses ground against; especially during their first time.

Hesitating, John tried to move back, only to have Sherlock’s legs tighten around him, preventing any escape. “Don’t stop John.” The words were uttered in an almost urgent tone; the nails digging into his hips seemed to say the exact same thing.

Spurred on by the needlepoints of pain he no longer tried to resist the temptation and began to thrust again. Leaning down he sprawled over the length of Sherlock’s chest, marvelling at the lean muscles that flexed as they moved together. Fisting his hands into the man’s soft locks he drew their lips together into another heated kiss.

Fiery trails along his back caused John to break away with a groan, body bowing as pleasure wracked his body. Sherlock’s cock dug into his stomach as he increased his pace, rubbing himself again arse and balls. 

Suddenly Sherlock was prying one hand out of his hair and pushing something into it instead. Wrenching his lips away he blinked down at the object in his hand. Lube. He inhaled sharply and locked eyes with Sherlock. Surely the man didn’t want him to penetrate him, did he? One look into those heavy-lidded eyes said yes.

Swallowing hard, John nodded, though mostly for himself. He knew the basics; he was a doctor after all, but in this moment, he was torn between lathering himself up and running away. If they did this, there was no going back to how things were before. Though, after everything else they had been doing there was no going back either.

With that thought, John eased back as Sherlock’s legs released their tight grip around him. Pouring some of the liquid onto his hand, he noted it didn’t have any scent, so not the oil the genius had used earlier. Rubbing his hands together for a moment to warm them he then reached out and stroked down the length of his friend’s cock, leaving a slick trail. Sherlock cried out, the sound barely audible as he thrust. 

As John grasped the straining erection in a firm grip his other hand continued down, brushing lightly over balls and across the perineum before circling his entrance. He moved slowly, hands working in sync as he watched Sherlock’s face for any sign of distress, absently noting that the man had yet to look away from him since this had begun. As he stroked his index finger breaching the outer ring of muscle, causing another groan to escape. Emboldened by this John continued his slow invasion, timing each firm stroke with his finger penetrating deeper.

The sight of Sherlock Holmes panting and writhing, sweat-damp curls framing that angelic face sent shivers of pleasure along his nerve endings. As his knuckle began grazing against the man’s ass John worked the tip of his second finger in, stretching the tight muscle further.

Sherlock cried out an unintelligible word and attempted o grind down on his hand. Shifting, John tightened his grip on the detective’s cock and began a faster rhythm. All the while his eyes stayed locked on his friend’s face, making sure there was no pain. There were none, even as his index and middle finger slid fully in. John found himself groaning as he thought of Sherlock clinching around his cock instead of his fingers and his hand continued thrusting. Hooking his fingers slightly, he angled up, searching.

He was doing this. John Watson was making his friend incoherent with the ecstasy; it was truly a heady feeling. His questing fingers found their mark; a little walnut-sized gland. Gently he stroked over it as he continued the thrusting motions, knowing from medical texts that it took a bit for the gland to become properly aroused.

“Now John,” The order was panted out through gritted teeth as Sherlock’s fists twisted in the sheets. Those odd eyes blazed as they stared down at him, lust written clearly across his face. 

He paused at the order, thinking that Sherlock couldn’t possibly be prepared enough, he was a hell of a lot bigger than his two fingers. A quick glance down confirmed what he knew to be true. Yep, it was much bigger than two fingers. “But-” He started but was cut off.

“Now.” No reassurances, no flowery words, just that single word command. The order was clear. The detective arched again, forcing John’s fingers to penetrate even deeper.

With a slow nod, John withdrew his fingers, enjoying the sounds the younger man was making. Still maintaining his grip on Sherlock’s cock he continued pumping for the little bottle of lube. Opening the cap, he liberally lathered his own erection, wincing slightly at the cold touch. Tossing the lube aside he took himself in hand and began stroking them both in sync, making sure to coat himself completely. 

Releasing Sherlock, he slid up to position himself at the man’s entrance. Leaning forward, one hand braced against the bed he held his erection in place, just brushing Sherlock’s entrance. He hesitated as he looked up at his friend, memorizing how he looked at this moment, utterly beautiful in his masculinity. 

Slowly John pushed in, head bowed as he gasped at the tightness, muscles straining as he forced himself to go slow. It felt so damn good, so hot, slick and tight. Letting go of the base of his erection John reached out and grasped his friend’s hip, fingers digging in hard. “God, Sherlock.” He panted as he shook, trying his damnedest to not just thrust in as hard as he could, to feel himself being enveloped fully. Sweat beaded on his skin as he held himself in rigid control.

He groaned as the younger man shifted, inner muscles tightening around John as he wrapped his legs around Johns' hips. Sherlock released his death grip on the sheets and reached out for him. He drew their faces close, a breath away from a kiss as his arms wrapped around John. “I’m not made of glass.” As he whispered those words Sherlock tightened his legs and arms, bowing his body and fully impaling himself on John.

They both cried out, their mingling shouts of pleasure music to John’s ears. He stayed there for a few panting moments revelling in the pulsing tightness, trying to keep himself under control, otherwise, he would be finished almost before he started. Pulling nearly all the way out he began to slowly thrust, initiating a gentle rhythm. He bowed his head and began kissing at the crook of the detective’s neck. This had to be one of the most amazing things he had ever felt.

Sherlock clung to him, nails biting into his back and side as he groaned. “Harder John, you can’t break me.” The words were breathy, almost too low to hear. The detective scored his nails down John as Sherlock bit his neck as if to make his point. 

The sensations of pleasure and pain wound in John as he thrust deeper, harder. Gripping the man’s hips, he shifted the detective more onto his hips and leaned in further, a better angle as their bodies moved together to hit the prostate. He knew he found the right spot when Sherlock’s nails dug in and his head fell back with a breathy moan. “There John, right there.”

With every deep thrust Sherlock seemed to get tighter and John wasn’t sure how long he would be able to last at this rate. Reaching out he grasped the detective’s cock and began pumping in the same rhythm of his thrusts, adding a twist of his wrist, He didn’t want to cum before Sherlock got off, that would just be rude.

They moved together, their sweat-slicked bodies sliding. Their groans muffled by desperate kisses and hard nips, hands gripping and nails biting as the pleasure built. He couldn’t get enough of how Sherlock looked at this moment, curls in complete disarray, his normally pale skin flushed, body arching, blazing eyes never once looking away. The most fascinating thing was the unending stream of silent words that he couldn’t hear falling from those kiss-swollen lips.

With a sudden gasp, Sherlock shoved John’s hand away from his erection, “Not before you.” He squeezed the base, eyes closing for the first time, brows crinkling in concentration as his mind and body fought for dominance.

John took the opportunity to grab one of Sherlock’s legs and hook it over his shoulder. Growling low in his throat he found himself going even deeper. At the first thrust, Sherlock’s eyes popped open and he cried out, “Yes!” It felt so amazing John wasn’t sure how much longer he could go at this rate.

The detective began pumping himself, twisting his wrist with every thrust. “John-” Whatever he was going to say was completely cut off my John stretching his other leg out and thrusting even harder. 

John’s thrust became erratic, hard and fast, breaking the rhythm as he felt himself getting close. As much as he tried he knew he wouldn’t hold off anymore. “Sherlock, I-” Everything pooled, the heat winding tighter and tighter. He was so close, just a few more thrusts and he’d be there. The orgasm hit, wave after wave crashing through him. He buried himself as deep as he could go, body bowing as he drowned in the ecstasy. His vision dimmed around the edges as he struggled to breath, straining through every pulse of his erection.

Distantly he noted something wet hitting his stomach, but he was too lost in these sensations to care. John felt himself being pulled down. Long arms encircled him as he continued to float, slowly drifting down from the high. Reality eventually sifted back and he found himself collapsed across Sherlock, face tucked under his chin. Cradled by the man’s arms and legs he lay there a moment longer listening to the strong beating of the detective’s heart.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there before he’d come back to awareness. With a soft sigh, John slowly began extracting himself from the tangle of his friend’s body, relishing in the feel of the man’s skin against his own. Sliding over he collapsed to the side, sprawling out on his back to stare at the ceiling. That had been amazing, more intimate than anything he had ever felt and he’d been with enough women to be a pretty good authority on intimacy.

Unfortunately, John wasn’t sure how he felt about what they had just done. Now that the haze of lust was gone, that driving need for more, he didn’t know what to do in this situation. He had just had the best sex of his life with his flatmate, his best friend, a self-proclaimed sociopath. He wasn’t even gay for Christ sake. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Sherlock slowly sat up. He didn’t look over at John as he proceeded to find and dawn his clothes, ignoring the fact that semen was slowly leaking down his thigh. Were Sherlock’s hands shaking slightly as he buttoned the shirt? John wanted to say something but didn’t know what would help in this situation. Because of that, he kept silent, watching as the man moved about the room, tracking down every last article of his clothing and donning it.

He stared at the detective made his way to the open door, wanting to stop him but not sure how. Just before stepping out Sherlock stopped and turned his head to look over his shoulder at John for the first time since they had finished. John would have thought that the fire in those eyes would have dimmed, but if anything, they blazed brighter then ever. “Emotions do not know gender, John. That would have been just as real had one of us been a woman.” With those last words, Sherlock straightened his spine, turned and calmly strode out.

~Fin~


End file.
